


put your dreams away for now

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Female Q, Gen, Q is a Holmes, also everyone hates mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-25
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-02-10 10:36:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2021877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas morning, and James is on Q's couch, drinking scotch and watching <em>Doctor Who</em> reruns.</p><p>In which the Holmes family does holidays, Fenchurch the cat has good judgement, and James Bond is confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	put your dreams away for now

**Author's Note:**

> kindly disregard the fact that i wrote a different bondlock fic. this is a sort of alternate universe. or something. (i mean, q is a _girl_.)
> 
> disclaimer: i know next to nothing about the james bond world. i watched skyfall once. that's it.
> 
> unbeta-ed, un-britpicked, you know the drill.
> 
> title from lost in my mind by the head and the heart.

It's Christmas morning, and James is on Q's couch, drinking scotch and watching _Doctor Who_ reruns. Her cat seems to have taken a liking to him, and it curls on his stomach and kneads.

"What's his name?" he calls to where Q's in the dining room, heat-resistant mats and a Bunsen burner taking up most of the table. Her typical half-rimmed glasses have been replaced with thick welding goggles, and they disorient James whenever he looks at her.

"Her," she replies, hardly looking up from her project. "Her name is Fenchurch."

James raises an eyebrow, about to comment, but the doorbell rings, and Q says distractedly, "Get that, would you?" as a particularly adventurous flame jumps. He does, a "morning, merry Christmas" on the tip of his tongue when he sees the men standing there.

One's tall, of a height with James himself, and narrow-framed, with an ink-coloured mop of hair and sharply calculating eyes. The other's short and blonde, the set of his shoulders so very military that James nearly snorts. "Can I help you?"

"Has she moved?" the soldier says very quietly to the taller one, who shakes his head firmly. James is reminded of a dog shaking himself after a bath and holds back another snort.

"No, I don't think so," he says absently, running a finger along the doorframe and squinting past James into the flat.

"Can I help you gentlemen?" he repeats more firmly, leaning in close between the door and the wall just to block their view. Q picks that moment to call, "James, who is it?" and the taller one jumps.

" _There_ she is," he says, and practically shoves James aside. Q's wandered into the hall behind them, goggles in hand and hair rumpled, and she stares at the two men a long moment. They stare back.

James is about to intervene- who are these people?- when the Bunsen burner on the table abruptly spits out a flame, crimson magenta, diverting their attentions. "Mm, lithium chloride," the taller one and Q say at almost the same time, and then they stare at one another some more until the soldier clears his throat loudly.

"Can we do this inside?" he asks, and Q blinks quite a few times and ushers the two inside. The shorter one stays standing, but the taller one reclines on the couch like he owns the place. Fenchurch gives him a dirty look and turns her head the other way pointedly.

"Ah, er, Fennel," he says, waving his hands, and Q frowns.

"Fenchurch, actually."

"I had to delete _something_." This makes no sense to James, but Q just frowns again and crosses back to her project, carefully dipping a wooden splint into a solution and waving it through the flame.

"Potassium," she says thoughtfully, tilting her head. "I suppose he's coming too, then?"

"Of course he is," the taller one says disdainfully. "He _says_ we don't do holidays- and indeed we don't- and then he goes and does something like this. Would you stop staring?"

James realizes in a rush that a. he is being spoken to and b. he _is_ staring. He quickly closes his mouth, but not before Q notices him.

"Oh," she says over her shoulder, "this's Sherlock, and that's John. He's my brother."

"John?" James asks, horribly confused- Q has a _brother_?

"And here I thought you had no patience for idiots," the taller one apparently named Sherlock says.

"He's not, he just acts a bit like one sometimes. He's James, please refrain from threatening him in any way, it's for your own good. Works the other way round, too, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Hello," the soldier, John, says, holding out a hand. "John. Nice to meet you." There's a silence, and then John adds with a gesture towards Sherlock, "He thinks so too."

Sherlock mutters something that sounds like "no I don't" and rolls over. "I suppose you're officially Q now," he says.

"Was I ever not?" Q replies, and really, James has no idea what's going on right now. "You know I never liked that name."

"No, Mummy doesn't exactly have a normal taste in names," Sherlock agrees.

"Of course she does," John says coolly. " _William_ is a normal name." Sherlock gives him a look that might have been fondness and might have been amusement and might have been annoyance.

"By the way, merry Christmas, Doctor," Q adds, apparently to John. "I congratulate you on your patience."

"Pardon?" John replies, politely, and Q shrugs expressively.

"Well, you're friends with _Sherlock_ ," as if that explains everything.

There's more silence, in which James and John stand awkwardly around the living room, Sherlock reclines on the couch, and Q continues her project like nothing's happened, and then the doorbell rings. No one moves to get it.

It rings again.

"Should I-" begins John, but Sherlock says, "No, don't bother, he'll come in anyway."

And indeed the door opens a moment later, and there's an odd tapping noise before a man comes into view.

He's probably in his mid-forties, tall with thinning auburn hair. As it turns out, the tapping noise was the umbrella he's carrying, and he pauses in the doorway and leans on it.

Fenchurch, who has been studiously looking away from Sherlock, meows displeasedly and gives him a positively dirty look, jumping up and wandering away with her tail held high.

"How domestic," the newcomer says, in a tone that makes James instantly want to punch him in the face. Q makes a noise of irritation and glowers at her chemicals.

"Close the door, there's a draft," she says. "What are you doing in my flat, anyway?"

"It's _Christmas_ ," the man says. His gaze settles on James. "Well, well. The famous double-oh."

"No," Q cuts in. "Mycroft, don't. James, this is my... _older brother_." She says "older brother" like it's a particularly nasty disease.

"Aren't you going to invite me in, Quincey?" Mycroft continues. Q glowers at her burner. James blinks furiously, confused.

" _Quincey_?"

"Mycroft, do us all a favor and leave."

"How rude. I'll tell Mummy."

"You always were a tattletale," Sherlock retorts, who seems to like Mycroft no more than Fenchurch does.

There's quite a bit more arguing after that, hidden behind dry insults and coolly level tones. _Must be a family thing_ , James thinks, and then, _Quincey_?

John, the military one, gives him a faintly exasperated look from across the room, and James sends one back, along with sympathy. It must be hard to be friends with a man like Sherlock- although Q is not the friendliest person in the world, James would much rather her than her brother.

(Well, either one of them, actually.)


End file.
